In a language scooped directly from a paintbrush, Inua Ellams announces his arrival on the poetry scene. His vibe is grainy as old vinyl with bumping beats between the lines. from 13 fairy negro tales Spokenword is like sex/ the more you listen/ the better it gets./ That’s why on long bus rides/ I close my eyes and try to hear drumbeats/ from Nigeria- the mother land calling./ I be like “yes mum, I’m hearing ya”/ It’s like some ciphered world/ with armies of sounds/ and underground cultures/ with talon-less vultures/ trying to pierce my skin/ and place talking drums within./ But Hip Hop takes over/ and my head bobs to the beat/ of a different soldier/ and it’s gotten colder/ on this side of thought/ ‘cause now/ I hear dreams money bought.